The evening pulsed with potential. Thistle, so-named "Master of Disguises" (and occasional dumpster-raider), stood ready for round two of the robbery. This time, though, things were... evolved. The days of mere window-thieving and hasty escapes were behind her. Tonight, Thistle was another person—literally.
She posed in front of the mirror, regarding her reflection in an outrageously large wig and a cravat that practically screamed, "I am too dignified for this." The fit of the clothes was immaculate. Not flashy enough, not plain enough, but just so as to lead the wealthy lady to say, "A wise gentleman, no doubt deserving of my gems."
Her strategy? Seduce, steal, and disappear into the darkness. It was perfect—or at least it looked that way after two days of planning and a highly dubious quantity of wine.
"Now, what would be appealing to a noblewoman?" she said to herself, tightening the cravat. "A little bit of dashing cleverness. A pinch of danger... yes, yes, that's it."
Just then, her two young accomplices, Pips and Nibs, popped their heads through the doorway. They looked more nervous than usual, as if Thistle's last adventure hadn't quite given them the confidence boost she had hoped for.
"You sure about this, Thistle?" Pips asked, his eyes wide. "You're dressing up as a… well, a very posh man."
"Absolutely. I'm a genius, remember? I'll have Lady Gildore eating out of my hand before she even knows it." Thistle beamed with all the confidence of a thief who had never truly succeeded but still managed to believe she was destined for greatness.
Pips and Nibs exchanged uneasy glances. "Just don't get us caught again, alright?" Nibs whispered.
Thistle threw her arms around them both in an exaggerated, overly dramatic fashion. "Don't worry, my dear boys. We're professionals now. And besides, even if things go awry, what's the worst that could happen?"
Before she could even react, she was out the door and marching toward the opulent mansion of Lady Gildore. When she arrived at the front entrance, a thought crossed her mind—there were a number of gaps in her plan. Specifically, she was going into a high-end soiree dressed as a man with the charm of a pickpocket and the humor of a raccoon in a bowler.
"What's the worst that can happen?" she growled to herself again, now feeling more uncertain.
The music played within, and folks moved around in elegant gowns and suits, sipping champagne as if they were royalty—or at least liked to think so. Thistle breathed in deep, adjusting her absurd wig for the third time and getting ready to "charm" her way to the treasure.
And that's when she spotted him.
Inspector Elias. Standing over there, just as tall, just as infuriatingly good-looking as ever. His piercing gaze met hers—those eyes that gave her an odd shiver down her spine. There was something about them that seemed so... familiar. But how?
She suppressed the urge to squirm. No. This was not the moment for her to fall apart in a pile of regret and bewilderment. She was a man of the finest order, remember?
"Concentrate, Thistle," she whispered, readjusting her cravat for the umpteenth time.
The scheme remained intact. Remained a masterpiece. Seduction, burglary, and a dash of bedlam.
Every step she took across the ballroom was a step closer to her destruction. She had no idea how to converse like a member of the aristocracy, and she was about to prove it.
And still, when she reached Lady Gildore, she was smiling with a seasoned familiarity.
"Well, my lady," she winked. "A lady of your sophistication must know how to enjoy the finer things in life—like jewelry, and gentlemen who know how to enjoy the finer things."
Lady Gildore's eyes blinked in uncertainty, unsure whether she should be impressed or repulsed. "Excuse me?"
Thistle recovered in a hurry, her wit now in full force. "Ah, pardon me, dear lady. I meant to say, what a beautiful necklace you are wearing. I am rather fond of glittering gems myself. Would you perhaps permit me to escort you and… take a closer look at your jewels?"
The woman's face relaxed somewhat, the compliment evidently winning her round—until, naturally enough, the lights went out, and the telltale rasp of someone clearing their throat behind them reached Thistle's ear.
It was Elias. And he was angry.
"Oh no," Thistle breathed under her breath, even as her hand curled into the pocket where the jewels were conveniently stored.
But before she had a chance to grab the loot, Elias stepped in, cool as a professional and infuriatingly calm. "Excuse me, ma'am," he said, calling her by that voice that was far too intimate. "I've been searching for you. You're not precisely who you purport to be, are you?"
Thistle came to an abrupt halt.
Had he gotten her? She felt her face heat up with blood and damned herself. The game was up.
But that's when she made her decision.
"Alright, Inspector," she said, putting on the most exaggerated posh accent she could muster. "You've caught me. But I'll have you know, I'm not here for jewels or mischief."
Elias raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing the change in tone. "And what, may I ask, are you here for then?"
Thistle leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "I'm here for the enjoyment, my dear Inspector. And, well, to determine if you can keep pace with me. Would you care to join me for a drink, and perhaps a dance? The evening is young, after all."
Her words lingered in the air as Elias paused, obviously conflicted between his responsibility and an inexplicable attraction to this absurd thief.
He didn't respond right away.
"Follow me," she said, flashing a grin and turning on her heel. "And maybe, just maybe, we'll make this night one for the history books. Or, at least, for my next great escape."
And with that, Thistle led the Inspector into the heart of the most ridiculous heist she'd ever attempted.